


Nothing Is Certain

by mustdefine



Category: Gymnastics RPF
Genre: 2012 Summer Olympics, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:07:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mustdefine/pseuds/mustdefine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She finds herself wanting to stand on that podium with Aly Raisman more than anything. Don’t expect anything, she tells herself once more, but expecting and wanting are different things. And Aliya Mustafina wants many things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Is Certain

Thirty minutes until the floor final. Aliya’s warming up with the others while the men compete on the high bar. The practice hall is nearly devoid of conversation and almost everyone is avoiding eye contact.

Kseniia finishes a pass and comes over, says something inconsequential, pats Aliya on the back. Aliya nods absently. She’s visualizing her routine again and again. The medals she’s already won are immaterial. Each event is its own battle, and in this event final she’s the underdog, the lowest-ranked qualifier in a field of world champions. Two years ago, she would have been angry about her placement. Now she is simply  _here,_  focused.

It’s her turn. She practices her second tumbling pass: 2.5 twist to a front layout 1/1. She bounces too much on the landing and frowns a little. Aliya’s still exhausted from the team, all-around, and bars finals. She doesn’t expect to win another gold tonight or even to medal. But she will damn well try her hardest. She moves over to the sidelines to take a breather.

Raisman’s up next. Aliya can’t help watching her. The height and sheer power of the American’s tumbling are breathtaking, though her form breaks upon landing. Raisman scrubs a hand over her hair in frustration, bicep and deltoid jumping like living things under her skin-tight leo. Aliya admires the sheer muscular athleticism of the Americans, but she has her own strengths. She whirls into a Memmel turn and everything blurs. 

The American captain is about to walk past on the sidelines when Aliya falls out of her spin. They make eye contact accidentally. Before looking away, Raisman nods at her. Maybe it is an acknowledgment of Russian artistry or of the strange bond of competitors. Or maybe it’s a message: “You took the bronze from me. Tonight is my night.”

Maybe. Almost nothing is certain in gymnastics.

Aliya gets back in line.

 

The wait in the tunnel and the procession onto the floor before the action starts seem longer than usual. It doesn’t help that she’s near the end of the lineup between Ferrari and Izbasa. She waits for Kseniia after the presentation before the judges. As the other gymnasts walk past, she notes that everyone else except Raisman looks tense. Aliya’s stomach roils, but she knows her face is as still as a mask. 

“Good luck,” she says to her teammate. Kseniia wishes her the same. They both hope at least one of them ends up on that podium tonight, but Kseniia’s first in the lineup, an unenviable position … she may set the tone for the evening, but more likely she’ll be knocked out of the running at some point.

And indeed, Kseniia steps out of bounds twice. When she comes off the floor, she doesn’t look happy. No real possibility of a medal. Aliya watches the scoreboard for her just in case. When it’s posted, Kseniia doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. If there’s any hope for a Russian medal, they both know it now falls on Aliya’s shoulders.  _Don’t expect anything,_  she tells herself. _Just do your best._

The Americans are up next, heavily favored to go one-two in this event. But years in the sport have taught Aliya that assumptions and favorites don’t always pay off. Wieber steps off the floor after a deduction-filled routine and Aliya thinks,  _Hmm_ , before she runs her third pass in her head. 

Raisman is up next, looking relaxed yet determined. When she hits her 1.5 twists/double Arabian/punch layout and sticks the landing right away, the crowd erupts. The rest of the routine is equally incredible: tremendous height and clean landings. Aliya normally doesn’t watch her rivals perform, but she always appreciates beauty in motion.

The score comes in and the other gymnast runs past in celebration. Aliya can’t begrudge her the medal that is now almost mathematically certain. So. Silver and bronze are the only options. If she places, she’ll medal in every event she’s qualified for. What are her chances? Aliya thinks it over as she begins to pull off her warm-up suit. Around her, the other girls are no doubt thinking along the same lines.

Their lives revolve around numbers, whether posted on scoreboards or intuitive physics calculations. Aliya’s beat the odds by even making it to the London Olympics. It’s true that she doesn’t have the same capacity to take a pounding on the floor as she had before the ACL tear. Still, here she is, with hours of physical rehab and practice behind her and a fierce hunger to leave a lasting mark on her sport. She finds herself wanting to stand on that podium with Aly Raisman more than anything.  _Don’t expect anything,_ she tells herself once more, but expecting and wanting are different things.

And Aliya Mustafina wants many things. 

She doesn’t watch the other competitors. She jogs in place, stretches, waits some more. Then it is her turn. She stands just out of bounds and bores holes in the board with her gaze, willing its icon to change to green. She salutes and strikes her pose. The blood thunders in her ears.

_Do your best and be courageous. Show them you’re worthy._

Afterward, she knows it’s not the absolute best floor exercise of her life. She knows the judges will take deductions … they always do. But she’s very happy with her performance. Aleksandr is happy too, hugging her as she comes off the floor. She grins and tries to catch her breath as she walks back to her seat. 

Aly Raisman is coming toward her, ready to congratulate her like the gracious sportswoman she is. When Aliya leans in to kiss her cheek in the Russian way, the American wraps her arms around Aliya in a big hug. Aliya can’t complain. For a moment all barriers are erased and no words are needed. As Raisman walks away, Aliya stops her with a heartfelt thumbs-up. The answering smile does curious things to her stomach, or maybe it’s leftover adrenaline. She doesn’t stop to think about it. She’s waiting for her score.

When it’s posted, the number makes Aliya grin again. She exchanges glances with Kseniia. Aliya’s not only beat Ferrarri, she’s going to be the most-decorated gymnast in the 2012 Olympics. 

Later, Aliya watches the flags rise over Raisman’s shoulders and feels the weight of one more medal on her chest. She’s gotten what she wanted. So has Raisman, no doubt. They’re much alike. They’ve quietly worked while the names of teammates have risen to prominence above theirs in various circumstances. They’ve persevered while others have prematurely dismissed them. They have become the bedrock of their respective teams. They’ve never felt entitled to anything; they have worked hard for everything. 

She steps up next to Raisman for pictures. They hold their medals up together. Both have earned their time to shine.

**Epilogue**

Before the Russian team leaves, Aliya hears her name across a crowded lobby in the Village. Raisman works her way across the room, trailing a small herd of admirers, and unhesitatingly wraps Aliya in another hug. 

After a long moment, the American pulls back. She squeezes Aliya’s hand and says something in English. Aliya feels her mouth pull into a crooked smile. Maybe it’s her imagination, but she sees an answering spark in those dark eyes.  She squeezes the other girl’s hand in reply before they’re pulled apart by the press of the crowd.

As she packs her suitcase, Aly’s words come to mind unbidden.

“See you at Worlds?”

Almost nothing is certain in gymnastics. But Aliya Mustafina wants many things.


End file.
